


A Portrait Of The Trequartista As A Young Man

by Anonymous



Series: regret and pain [3]
Category: Blur (Band), Elastica (Band), Indie Music RPF, Music RPF, Suede (Band)
Genre: Author Projecting, F/M, I Tried, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Jealousy, M/M, Murderous Intent (hyperbole), Open Relationships, Secret Relationship, Sharing Clothes, Songfic, author is a shit writer and has creative block, bit of time shifting on my part, tbh just a draft i was unhappy with
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:48:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28768824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: A colourful image of dismemberment. Summer '91. Suede are still pretty shit, but Bernard doesn't care as much about that as he'd like you to believe.
Relationships: Brett Anderson/Bernard Butler, Damon Albarn/Justine Frischmann, Implied Damon Albarn/Graham Coxon, One Sided Brett Anderson/Justine Frischmann, Secret Brett Anderson/Bernard Butler
Series: regret and pain [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2129235
Kudos: 1
Collections: Anonymous





	A Portrait Of The Trequartista As A Young Man

There the bastard fucking was. Sitting there, draped in Bernard's soft fur coat, posing and pouting to their mates' camera like a fifties pin-up girl. For fuck's sake. He'd be insane by the end of this year with desire, he swore it. His thoughts lately had just been one thing - Brett, Brett, Brett. Well, that was a lie. He thought of his cherry red guitar and his girlfriend with the same longing need... not as often, though. 

Speaking of girlfriends, Justine, being the girlfriend of said boy, would come in from time to time, working on songs and dodging questions about Blur instead to opt for a witty remark and a kiss on the cheek. Bernard wished she kept her words behind her tongue more, to spare the poor lad pain. It wasn't exactly a secret that Justine and Damon were "going round" together - even Bernard had met the bloke and the entire time tension rose among the three like a thick smog of discomfort. She'd even gone to the 'Bang' video shoot (the worst song he'd ever heard, the worst lyrics too - and that wasn't even just out of loyalty), which meant her dagger remained firmly in their backs until Brett got the balls to stand up to the woman walking all over him. 

"Like you're one to talk about cheating," she'd reply to them when they hinted at possibly not having sex with the lead singer of another bloody band, with a knowing smile and a click of the tongue. 

And there it was. With that comment, she'd spark an undeniable fire in Bernard's chest; what was she even talking about? He didn't know. He'd always been loyal to his girlfriend and he never cheated, he told himself. Resorting to shuffling his hands between each other awkwardly, he'd tap his foot a little in impatience, broaden his shoulders and furrow his dark brows. For God's sake, get this sinking ship down already; why didn't Brett just push her out? 

Oftentimes he'd imagine the band expecting Justine to show up at rehearsal, only to find her head removed someplace and her body mysteriously sinking down the Thames, heart ripped out and lobbed to a seagull to peck at. She was his friend, sort of, and a bandmate, but he couldn't wait to see her go. It'd eventually happen - the crescendo of her packing up, leaving and taking her love for him somewhere else. There'd only be enough room for one of them, and the one standing had to be him.

Brett once remarked that Bernard tasted of chocolate orange, and smelled of denim, but most of all reeked of anger. He couldn't get that out of his mind, his stubbornness had placed him into the best situations of his life - including this dead end band that landed him a fucker with a carnation in his pocket - but was he really angry? He loved Justine, to an extent. In the familial way, in the way where you'd love to see them succeed, because it'd mean their departure. 

Stomping around at rehearsal, flinging himself back and forth as a small quirk in his playstyle, he'd see Brett look over at him: not Justine, in her inferior plucking, but him. For a second, his mouth would raise at the ends and he'd feel at bliss along with the racket they were making. He was very much above all of this, but maybe he'd stay for moments like that.

A lifetime of dedications would never be enough for the words he wanted to say. Consistently he hesitated each time they went off in secret, pausing to ask if it was right, knowing the answer to that question didn't matter because of how his chest heaved at the sweet opportunity. He hated to admit he was close to Brett, and even seeing his heart broken to the point where he'd pick him up as a reluctant 'messing about with the guitarist' second choice - possibly taking in Damon's footsteps to bring back Justine - crushed him a little. 

Time's arrow had somehow marched forward again, the session undoubtedly sweatier than where he last took it all in, Brett flailing and whining at the top of his range in Justine's oily face, pushing back her slick dark hair. Mat was off brooding in the corner focusing on his bass, and he was stuck in place. Simply doing nothing but watching, eyes following one of Brett's hands squeaking off holding the microphone and holding her face delicately. 

Since when was music about sexual tension? Thinking about that, that should stay as a rhetorical. Even as a self-proclaimed miserable bastard, he couldn't help but feel a bit strange. Usually at these displays of affection he'd huff and sigh, carrying on and wishing Justine's head would go clean off into the damp London drainhole; now his armhairs stood on end and pink dusted his ears. Fumbling, he laid down his guitar, took his slightly wet, grimy fur coat that Brett imprudently brought over to rehearsal and fucked off. He rubbed his temples in frustration and took umbrage at the disgusting display, leaving to do anything other than be there. 

Mostly lying to himself was something Bernard had become accustomed to. It'd eventually boil up into something much bigger, but that was something for future him to worry about. It really wasn't his fault that he was the next best to Justine - a skinnier, male version of her, with a bigger nose. Yeah, maybe getting her out of the picture would take a while longer in the state he was in at seeing some light petting.


End file.
